


Like Someone in Love

by somedaysomewhere



Category: X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art, Falling In Love, Just establishing that, M/M, Seungwoo is 33, Seungyoun is 24, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somedaysomewhere/pseuds/somedaysomewhere
Summary: Life imitates art.
Relationships: Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Han Seungwoo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 138





	Like Someone in Love

The first time he meets Seungyoun, the other is staring at an Andy Warhol painting, his right hand clutching a film camera and his phone. Everyone who goes to the gallery stops in front of the famed work at least once and mulls over it as much as one could about a can of tomato soup. Majority take five minutes tops, but Seungyoun is going on twenty, and Seungwoo is beginning to wonder if he can see things that others can’t. He isn’t taking a photo nor jotting down notes—he simply stands, observing.

Naturally, Seungwoo’s interest is piqued. He keeps him within his field of vision, eyes flitting every now and then to check on him. And it’s fortunate that he does because otherwise, he would’ve missed Seungyoun bringing his hand close to the canvas, almost touching an object that’s worth a hundred million won. Only three kinds of patrons do this: those who don't bother reading about art etiquette, those who do so but disregard them anyway, and those who don’t care at all because they can pay for it. Whichever they are, they always dampen his mood.

“I’m sorry but we prohibit any contact with the artwork,” he sternly reminds, striding towards Seungyoun with wide and brisk steps. He can be authoritative when the situation calls for it, and the gallery’s most prized item being compromised is such. Some collectors are nitpicky and will notice even the smallest of fingerprints or stains, which, in consequence, can slash off millions of the selling price. When that happens, Seungwoo has no choice but to grin and bear it as he can’t risk any negative press.

“Ah, I wasn’t planning to,” Seungyoun denies, immediately drawing back and facing Seungwoo. “I was just scaling its size.”

“Huh?”

“I wanted an estimate of the measurements so I used what I have: my hand,” Seungyoun explains, raising said limb up as if proving its innocence.

Seungwoo tilts his head to the side, puzzled. “You could’ve asked me. Or referred to the information pamphlet,” he says, pointing to the stack of paper by the entrance.

Seungyoun smiles sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “You seemed busy. As for the pamphlet, it didn’t cross my mind.”

Upon closer perusal, the boy is handsome with his fox-like eyes, poreless skin and medium-length hair tucked behind his ears. He’s wearing a white tee and jeans, topped with a cobalt coat that almost reaches the floor. His sneakers are decorated with daisies and brushstrokes. Based on how he’s dressed, it’s apparent that he is young. Then again, everyone is younger than Seungwoo these days.

Seungwoo sighs, exhaling the tension out of his body. No harm is done so there’s no point in harping. “Alright. Just don’t do it again, okay? Your intentions may be different, but accidents do occur.”

“Yeah. I’ll be careful.”

The conversation could’ve been over then, but Seungwoo is still curious about something. “So, what do you make of Warhol?”

“Not much.”

“You’ve been staring for twenty minutes and there’s ‘not much’?,” he asks jokingly, now amused.

“You noticed,” Seungyoun grins, shyly hiding his face by looking down. “I’m not into him, honestly. I just happened to have a quarter-life crisis in front of this particular soup can.”

“Eh? What brought it to surface?”

“I actually went to three other galleries today. I pitched my works in hopes of having them showcased, but they were all turned down.”

Seungwoo whistles low, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re an artist? What’s your medium?”

“Painting. I was often told that I’d starve doing this, but I didn’t think it would be this soon.”

“It’s true that there are negative connotations around painting, but don’t let them dishearten you,” Seungwoo says. There are prejudices regarding the arts, and while some of them are valid, the act of discouraging is something he disagrees with. Every field has its disadvantages, and it should be up to the person to weigh them without outside influence. “How long have you been applying for exhibits?”

“One year and a half. I’ve done mini art fairs but not solo shows.”

“Hn, fairs are a competent starting point,” Seungwoo remarks, folding his arms together. “Did you graduate recently?”

“Two years ago. I finished at twenty-two and now, I’m twenty-four.”

“And your name is?”

“Cho Seungyoun,” Seungyoun answers, extending a hand.

Seungwoo returns the gesture. _Twenty-four_ —he can barely remember what he was doing at that time. “Han Seungwoo. Are you here to put in an application or?”

“No. Three is enough rejections for a day,” Seungyoun says, shaking his head. “I heard that a Warhol was here so I went to see it personally. I guess I want to understand why it sells for that much.”

“The Soup Series may be simple and straightforward, but they’re also representative of the Pop Art movement. For that contribution alone, the amount is expected to be staggering. Of course, fame is at play too. It’s a coveted item so that escalates the price even higher.”

Seungyoun nods, his lips curling into a bitter grimace. “It’s just a bit unfair sometimes. Some get millions while others are paid dust. I wish people recognized us too.”

This is a common complaint—and a valid one at that. In his eight years of working in the industry, Seungwoo can fairly conclude that the art world is about connections. He has seen ridiculous stuff being sold for ridiculous prices, but that’s Art—it’s subjective and available for whomever to consume. There’s no criteria on what makes one better, what makes one more expensive, what makes a work influential and so on. Sometimes, it’s just a matter of marketing to the right person.

But that’s another problem because art is a business too. A number of gallery owners and curators will only vouch for what’s profitable, and some collectors buy for the sake of reselling. For this purpose, they rely on big fishes, like Mondrian, Kusama, etcetera. This monopolizes the scene into celebrating the same names over and over, further limiting the exposure for smaller and budding artists.

Seungwoo tries to maintain a balance of both. While he features something prominent from time to time (such as today’s Warhol), he exerts an effort to display independent works as well. There isn’t any deep meaning to his role, but helping pave careers gives him fulfillment. It’s a win-win for him—he gets to enjoy and advocate for his interest while earning.

“I’m leaving,” Seungyoun interrupts, bowing deeply. The tips of his ears are red, most likely from embarrassment. “Sorry for rambling, and uh, please tell the owner that _Archives_ is really beautiful.”

Seungwoo glances at the high ceilings of the space before returning his gaze to Seungyoun. “The owner says thank you.”

Seungyoun’s brows shoot up. “Are you—”

“Yes. And don’t worry, I know where you’re coming from. There’s no need to apologize.”

“Still, it’s not right to suddenly blurt out things like that, especially to a stranger.”

“You’re frustrated. It happens. But by any chance, do you have a studio I can visit?”

“Um. I don’t,” Seungyoun stammers, eyes wide. “But I live in a one-bedroom apartment and that is where I paint.”

Seungwoo hums. “When are you free?”

“Anytime?”

“Be here tomorrow at 1pm. I’ll drive us to your address and evaluate whatever you have.”

“Thank you. I’m grateful for the opportunity,” Seungyoun exclaims, bowing for the second time, his hair fanning the sides of his neck. Gone is the dejection from his voice, and he now sounds bright and cheerful. Seungwoo feels bad for planting hope, but it’s better than depriving him of a chance. Who knows? He might end up liking what the younger can offer.

  
  
  
  


Seungwoo isn’t the best at describing art. He doesn’t have enough knowledge to explain forms, techniques or the differences between movements. The way he chooses for the gallery is purely by gut feel rather than technicality—if the work elicits an emotion out of him, then it’s something he’ll consider. So far, this method hasn’t failed him yet, and he believes it won’t let him down this time either.

He pads around Seungyoun’s apartment, scanning every painting that is displayed. The younger’s work is a carnival of colors, the strokes blending in until they’re indistinguishable from one another. His preference for impasto shows; the oil paint applied so thickly it stands out from the surface, adding a three-dimensional, almost sculptural quality to an otherwise flat finish. There are six canvases in total: two abstract, two variations of a sunset and two with distorted faces. Seungwoo has always been partial to the latter, and he enjoys the sight of blemished skin and empty eye sockets.

“These are good,” he comments, staring at a particular detail in one of the sunset paintings. “Orange and blue. It’s a strange combination but it works.”

Seungyoun stands beside him. His hair is messily tied back, and there are smudges of paint on his shirt. Surrounded by his personal items, he looks more at ease. “Those are my favorite colors. I try to incorporate them as much as possible.”

“How long does it usually take you to finish a painting?”

“One to two months?,” Seungyoun answers, pursing his lips. “It depends on how motivated I am. If inspiration is hard to come by, it can be up to half a year.”

“For someone who uses oil, that’s actually fast. Can you tell me how you came up with these?,” Seungwoo asks, gesturing towards the artworks. Out of everything that he does for this job, finding out the thought process behind a piece is his favorite. Everyone’s brains are wired differently, and it’s fascinating to hear about what drives an artist to create. 

Seungyoun beams, visibly excited at having received such a question. “Well, firstly, the abstract ones are meant to depict emotions. This is _Gaiety._ The strokes here are short and sharp, akin to tiny bursts of euphoria. Next is _Woe_ , and in contrast, its strokes are linked and unending. From my experience, joy tends to happen in peaks while loneliness is a swirl that lingers. Using colors was kind of contrite so I interpreted them like this.”

“Go on.”

“And then, sunsets. I’ve been drawn to them ever since; hence, my preference for orange and blue. When I’m in a dump, they’re my go-to subject. Because the layers are blurred, there’s no clear distinction between ground and sea. All the hues bleed into each other, mimicking how a sunset looks when your vision is unfocused.”

“And the faces?”

“I was simply tired of the normal ones. People put too much stock in appearances that sometimes, they disregard everything else. I can’t blame them though; there is comfort in pretense. But the idea unsettles me deeply so I illustrated a scenario where people are ostentatious of their faults.”

Seungyoun discusses his art with such vigor that it’s easy to be absorbed in whatever he says. His eyes sparkle, and his hands constantly move, barely keeping up with the speed of his words. Youth personifies passion and enthusiasm—two qualities he evidently has. Seungwoo only hopes that the world won’t dim them excessively, like what it did to him.

He reaches a decision then. It’s not difficult—any of the paintings is enough to convince him. But while they’re amazing on their own, seeing them side by side is an experience he wants to share with the public. “I’ll get the sunsets first and put them up for sale,” he confirms, taking out a folder from his bag. “This way, people will have an idea of your name.”

“Are you serious? You’re not pulling my leg or anything?,” Seungyoun asks, surprised.

“Yes. My assistants will pick it up tomorrow so be sure it’s prepared by then.”

“I will. Oh god, thank you. Thank you so much, Seungwoo-ssi.”

Seungwoo smiles, elated at the other’s eager response. “It doesn’t stop there. If you’ll allow, Archives would like to host your debut exhibit.”

Seungyoun stops mid-sentence, his jaw falling slack. “W-what?”

“There’s four remaining, right? We need two more pieces though. Four looks lacking,” Seungwoo explains, laying a pen and the folder on the nearest available desk. He opens it to reveal the contract he drafted beforehand. “You’ll be slated for November—that gives you a deadline of six months. Can you make it?”

“I can. I promise.”

“Then welcome to the club, Seungyoun-ssi. I hope you’re good with social settings.”

  
  
  
  


As it turns out, his worries are for nothing. Seungyoun is a natural at maintaining conversations, concise with his words and smooth with his flattery. The guests easily warm up to him, and occasionally, they will let out a chuckle in his presence. It’s easy to see why they’re drawn; he is undeniably charming.

Maybe it’s for this reason that Seungwoo finds himself following the other’s actions, engrossed in his little habits. For example, Seungyoun angles his head to the side when he laughs, and he curls his fingers together when he’s nervous. His ears go red when he’s shy or overwhelmed, like when he signed the contract and this morning before the gallery opened. There’s always an accessory on his head: a cap, a beanie or a beret. He has on the same two earrings he wore when they first met and— _wait,_ when did Seungwoo become this creepy?

He shakes his head vehemently, clearing his thoughts. Thinking about a boy who is years younger than him isn’t part of today’s schedule, nor tomorrow’s or the coming days’. Not only is it distracting, it’s also weird as hell. The lack of sleep from the past days must be getting to him.

“That was refreshing, Mr. Cho. I’m looking forward to seeing more of your art,” says a suited executive, patting Seungyoun on the shoulder. The man in question is Lee Dongwook, a known museum curator and a regular of the gallery. He’s their fourteenth visitor, which means fourteen new people have seen Seungyoun’s works already. This is why Seungwoo insisted for the other to be present on the first week of selling—interacting and establishing relationships with guests will matter significantly in the future.

“Thank you, Mr. Lee. I hope I don’t disappoint,” Seungyoun responds, ushering the man to his car. He waits until the vehicle is out of sight before trudging back to his seat.

“How are you doing?,” Seungwoo asks, noticing the younger’s exhausted stance.

“Good. Still nervous,” Seungyoun answers, slumping further against the chair. He wipes the sweat off his hairline, his rings glinting under the overhead light. “This sets the record for the most number of people I’ve talked to in a day.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You looked calm.”

“They’re nice so initiating small chats isn't hard. What intimidates me is the fact that I’ve seen some of them in the pages of high-society magazines.”

“Yeah. I’d say they’re normal, but normal people aren’t millionaires or parading around in convertibles. Nevertheless, they’re approachable. As long as certain topics are avoided, you won’t encounter any problems.”

A ring interrupts them. Seungwoo reaches for his phone, putting it on speaker. “Hello?”

“Seungwoo-ssi, this is Mr. Lee,” Dongwook says, the sound garbled by traffic noise. It hasn’t been fifteen minutes since he left. Most likely, he’s still on the road.

“Oh hi, Mr. Lee. Did you forget something?”

“Please reserve one of Mr. Cho’s paintings to my name. The one on the left. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

“Eh?,” Seungwoo says, shocked. He isn’t expecting to make a sale this soon, with today being their first day. Mr. Lee must’ve been _very_ impressed. “Sure, Sir. I’ll have it ready for pickup. Thank you for your business.” 

Beside him is Seungyoun, speechless and close to tears. When the call is dropped, the younger rushes to wrap his arms around him.

  
  
  
  


“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t tell what?,” Seungwoo asks, feigning innocence.

Wooseok narrows his eyes. He can be threatening when he’s determined, and right now, he looks ready to kill. “You have a cute boy working for you and you’re keeping it a secret.”

Seungwoo sips from his coffee, relishing its warmth and bitterness. The peace was nice while it lasted. “Technically, he isn’t my employee. He’s an artist represented by the gallery.”

“Semantics. Point is, there’s a potential love interest and you didn’t say anything.”

“Because he’s not. He’s only twenty-four, Wooseok. I’m not a cradle robber.” 

“He isn’t a teenager, hyung. And please stop acting like you’re a grandfather.”

“I’m nine years older than him. That’s borderline ancient,” Seungwoo chides, rubbing his face. 

Wooseok stops in the middle of eating. He places his sandwich back on the plate and inhales deeply, a sign that he’s about to lose patience. “First of all, you’re only a year older than me. So whenever you say that, it’s implied that I’m old too,” he says, affronted. “Second, as I mentioned, he isn’t a teenager. He can decide for himself. If he doesn’t react favorably, then you can always back out.”

Seungwoo trembles a little. He can take on anything, just not Wooseok’s wrath. The last time he was caught in its crossfire, the other didn’t talk to him for two months straight.

“You seem to be invested in this,” he replies noncommittally, showing neither agreement nor dismissal. The most effective way to deflate the younger’s moods is to play safe.

“Because I want you to have someone, Seungwoo. Being with Yohan has impacted my life greatly, and I wish the same for you.”

Wooseok is in a longtime relationship with Kim Yohan, his junior of four years. It was Seungwoo who introduced them (Yohan is a manager at Archives), and he suspects this as the reason for the other’s insistence to find a partner for him as well. But there’s no need for paybacks—as long as both of them are happy, Seungwoo is content.

So what if his bed or his hands feel too empty sometimes? 

“You literally just met him days ago. And it’s not even two weeks for me.”

“Does it matter? When I paid the gallery a visit, it took you ten minutes to notice my presence. Which never happens, by the way,” Wooseok points out, picking up his sandwich again. “You practically have a sixth sense when it comes to guests. Even before they come into full view, you’re opening the doors for them already. The fact that you lost track of your surroundings says a lot.”

“That was one—,” Seungwoo starts, but then he remembers an incident and he promptly shuts his mouth.

Wooseok is sharp however, and he doesn’t let it slide. “I heard that. It wasn’t one time. Did you forget that the same thing happened yesterday?”

“Alright. Point taken,” Seungwoo relents, sighing. “I enjoy talking to him. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to take him out or anything.”

“I’m not saying you should date right now. I just want you to consider. He seems nice and cheerful—something your workaholic ass needs.”

“We’ll see.”

“Are you attracted? Even a tiny bit?”

“Are you asking if I find him handsome? I’m not going to say no.”

“Then that’s enough.”

“Wooseok-ah,” Seungwoo says, scandalized. “That barely means anything.”

“But a spark is a spark, no matter how tiny it is,” Wooseok remarks, adjusting his posture. He stares directly at Seungwoo, the full force of his gaze intimidating. “Do you promise to see it through?”

“Yes, yes. But is he really that different? You’ve never been this pushy.”

“I have a good feeling about him.”

“Well, whatever that feeling is, it has to wait. I’m not taking any steps until the solo exhibit is over.

“Eh? That long?”

“Because the event is his hardwork and craft, and I don’t want people assuming that it’s a result of him being involved with me. I don’t want to give him a wrong impression either. He may think that I had ulterior motives from the beginning, or that I’d jeopardize the show if he doesn’t agree.”

“You’re not that kind of person.”

“But he doesn’t know that. There’s a lot we don’t know about each other, so it’s only wise to spend the next months learning whatever we can first.”

“Always the voice of reason,” Wooseok jokes, finally letting out a smile. Behind his tough exterior is just a person who sincerely cares for his friends.

Seungwoo laughs. “We all can’t be you who asked Yohan to be his boyfriend on the third date.”

“Zip it. When you know, you know.”

  
  
  
  


Four months ahead of the show’s date, the first of Seungyoun’s two additional pieces is starting to take shape. 

“I thought of doing butterflies this time,” he explains, dipping the paintbrush in linseed oil. “They’re the perfect symbol for metamorphosis.”

“So it’s about changes?”

“Yeah, along with other things.”

Seungwoo leans forward, inspecting the small dots scattered all over the canvas. “Don’t explain it to me yet. I don’t want to be spoiled.”

He watches the other in his element, entranced by how he builds worlds from scratch. Seungyoun paints in an erratic manner, alternating lines and streaks and the heaviness of his hands. A palette knife is picked up from time to time to deposit thicker layers of pigment. There’s magic in seeing people immersed in what they love—the scene feels personal, like Seungwoo is witnessing something intimate.

“What do you think?,” Seungyoun asks, turning to him. He runs his fingers through his unruly hair, leaving loose strands to frame his face. 

“It’s great so far, but let me fix this,” Seungwoo answers, picking up a tie from the desk. He approaches the younger, and once he’s within reach, he gathers the strands of Seungyoun’s hair, securing it into a ponytail.

No one speaks for a minute. Seungwoo freezes on the spot, startled by his own actions as well. His pulse quickens when their gazes meet, afraid that he may have overstepped his boundaries.

However, Seungyoun grins. “Thank you,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He shifts to face the canvas, and just like that, the moment is shattered.

It must be the fumes in his head, but Seungwoo swears that for a second, their eyes reflected the same thing.

  
  
  
  


Seungyoun is effortless in whatever he does—be it painting, conversing or charming everyone into being fond of him. Now, as he croons a ballad song, Seungwoo wonders how many surprises are left up his sleeves.

The younger has been holed up in his apartment for weeks, and Seungwoo’s days are also filled with logistics for three upcoming art shows. It’s already September, and there are numerous matters to focus on. Except for a few texts confirming the progress of the paintings, they really haven’t had many chances to talk. He prefers it that way; the close distance isn’t helping his brain. It’s easier to hide behind his excuses from afar, where he’s safe from the pull of Seungyoun’s pout and smiles.

Yet, ironically, he was quick to answer yes to his invitation to hang out. They’re currently in Hangang Park, surrounded by food and people, basking in the afternoon sun. As happiness bursts from his chest, Seungwoo admits that agreeing to this was the right choice. And from how Seungyoun is laughing and singing at the top of his lungs, it’s obvious that he needed the break as well.

“Hyung,” Seungyoun says, rolling over the grass to look up at him. “How many tattoos do you have?”

“Three. The one on my shoulder is my birthdate,” Seungwoo explains, pointing to the roman numerals imprinted on his skin. “And this one is a lilac and crescent moon. On my chest is a misspelled english phrase.”

“Misspelled?,” Seungyoun asks, teeth gnawing on his bottom lip, holding back a chuckle. “So I wasn’t wrong. I was confused when I first saw it peeking from your shirt.”

Seungwoo groans. “God, I hate your expression right now,” he says, referring to the mischievous glint in Seungyoun’s eyes. “You look like you discovered a blackmail-worthy material.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep it a secret in exchange for something,” Seungyoun winks. He takes out an object from his pocket and raises it for the world to see—a pen. “I’m giving you a tattoo. Free of charge.”

“Is it washable? You know, in case there’s a mistake again,” Seungwoo jokes.

“100% washable, dermatologist-tested and painter-approved. And I’m not going to draw anything explicit,” Seungyoun pledges, moving to sit beside him.

Their legs touch. Heat seeps through the thick fabric of Seungwoo’s jeans, making his breath catch. “You have my permission then,” he mumbles softly. He schools his features to appear unbothered, but he isn’t sure if it’s any effective. 

His left forearm is placed above his thighs, secured in place by the other’s hands. Their eyes meet for a split second, and then it’s over, leaving his heart in somersaults. Seungyoun bends over to focus on his wrists, leaning in so close that Seungwoo catches a whiff of musk and cherries. The proximity causes his brain to short-circuit, and he stays silent until the drawing is finished.

“Ta-da, I’m done,” Seungyoun announces after a few minutes. He removes his hands to reveal a small butterfly situated above Seungwoo’s radial pulse point.

“It’s pretty,” Seungwoo praises, marveling at the sketch. Half of its wings are natural-looking, and the remaining half is composed of flowers. “Isn’t this your theme?”

“Yup. Do you know the butterfly effect?” 

“I’ve heard about it.”

“It’s popular. Tiny changes can lead to bigger ones. Small incidents can have a tremendous impact on the future.”

“It’s true, no? Every single thing has a bearing.”

Seungyoun stares at him meaningfully, his pupils darkening. “Yeah. Life can realign completely when you least expect it.”

The sun is setting over the river, bathing the city in multiple hues. Like in Seungyoun’s paintings, the colors of the sky mold together, transforming into a gradient of blues and oranges.

  
  
  
  


“Okay. I think you’re all set.” 

Seungwoo removes his glasses, placing them on the wooden table. The consistent late nights are giving him headaches, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, seeking relief. There’s only a week before Seungyoun’s exhibit. So far, all paintings are ready. The invites are sent, and the posters are put up as well.

“I’m anxious,” Seungyoun admits, looking down. “What if they don’t like it?”

”Hey, I’m a fan. And I’m sure I’m not the only one,” Seungwoo says, lifting the younger’s chin and grinning at him encouragingly. “Besides, most of the patrons are the ones you met during the selling. They had nice words for you, remember?”

Seungyoun breaks into a small smile. “Thank you, Seungwoo-hyung. For everything.”

“What is this? Why are you being sappy all of a sudden?”

“I just haven’t thanked you enough.”

“No need for that,” Seungwoo deflects, suddenly embarrassed. He dislikes taking credit for something as basic as human decency. “You’re creative. I’m only providing you a platform.”

“And that means a lot.”

“Well, you can return the favor by being confident. I’ll be happy if you become proud of yourself.”

  
  
  
  


The gallery is brimming with guests, all holding champagne glasses and canapés. Seungwoo is in one of the high tables, mingling with an art curator, a businessman and an architect. He clutches the stem of his glass, swirling the wine around as they talk about the newcomer artist. A photographer aims his camera on them, and he leans in automatically, plastering on a smirk he’s reserved for these kinds of parties. 

Standing on the podium is Seungyoun, who is currently discussing the crux of his paintings. He is dashing in his black suit, complete with cufflinks and a pocket square. His hair is more polished than usual, and all of his piercings are filled. Even from afar, his lips are glossy and tempting.

“Butterflies often represent metamorphosis. In this series, I used them for the same purpose, but I modified the concept by severing parts of the insect,” he explains, his hands moving along to his sentences. “As you can see, they’re all missing something—wings, antenna, their entire bodies. It intends to show that changes are not always for the better. Sometimes, in the middle of transitions, we lose fragments of ourselves.”

Six of his works are displayed: two abstracts, two mangled faces and two butterflies, the most recent addition. There’s nothing plain about his work—the vivid and twisted details are excellent mind riddles.

“Second, these paintings are also inspired by the butterfly effect. It’s an idea that small things can have non-linear effects on a complex system,” he resumes. “The theory is imagined with a butterfly flapping its wings and causing a storm. Of course, that isn’t plausible in reality; but like art, it’s a metaphor. Tiny moments can serve as catalysts, like what a person did for me.”

Seungyoun looks at him then, making his heart clench. There’s no mistaking it this time—it’s not only gratitude that’s in his eyes. It has always been there, but Seungwoo was adamant about not acknowledging it, dismissing it as mere childish folly. Why would the other have an interest in him?

Because see, there are oceans of issues between them. More than age, it’s the fact that they’re on very different chapters of their lives, bringing in a whole different set of priorities. Seungwoo is weathered; jaded by time and beaten down by disappointments. He doesn't want to dim Seungyoun's brightness.

But then Seungyoun smiles, and somehow, he becomes willing to take the risk. How conceited is he to assume that he can dull someone as scintillating as him?

“I hope this inspires us to be more conscious of our actions. Thank you for coming to Archives tonight, and feel free to approach me for any questions,” Seungyoun ends, bowing deeply. The audience brings their hands together in applause. Seungwoo joins in, mentally arranging the words he plans to express.

But he won’t say them now. There are things they have to attend to, and Seungyoun will be swarmed by people for a while. Later, when it’s tranquil, he will be honest. Later, when they have all the time in the world, he will reach for something he always thought he didn’t need.

  
  
  
  


It’s one in the morning, an hour after the end of the exhibit. The curtains are brought down, and the pieces are returned to their proper places. Seungwoo clears the space of leftover food and refreshments. He stows away the last of the tables, hiding them inside the storage room. 

“Let me help you,” Seungyoun says, gripping the opposite ends of the furniture. 

Seungwoo declines. “It’s fine. You had a long night.”

“I insist. This way, we’ll finish faster.”

“Then, can you please bring in the last two?”

The event went well—more than well, actually. All of Seungyoun’s pieces are reserved, waiting to be shipped on the next business day. There are also promises of a magazine feature from the editors-in-chief who went. Seungwoo knows this is only the beginning, and that careers in this industry are seldom stable. Still, he is overjoyed.

“How do you feel?,” he asks, stopping beside a blank wall. The room is empty now, save for the two of them alone.

“Like I’m walking on clouds?,” Seungyoun chuckles, disbelieving. “I don’t understand what they see in me, but I’m happy nonetheless.”

“Ugh,” Seungwoo mumbles. “We have to work on that confidence.”

“We?”

“Yes. I can’t leave you now, can I?”

Seungyoun blushes, gaze dropping down to the floor. He clears his throat to hide his shyness, punctuating it with a forced cough. The tips of his ears are red, and he’s curling his fingers together. There’s only one thought in Seungwoo’s head: _fuck, he’s adorable._

“Can I be honest?,” Seungyoun says after composing himself. “I want to hold your hand.”

Seungwoo raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you?,” he challenges.

Seungyoun grins then, like the sun cracking through the sky during daybreak. “Because you told me not to touch the art.”

It’s Seungwoo who snorts first, followed by the younger who launches into a fit of giggles. Strangely, his heart feels full, overflowing with something he can’t pinpoint yet. 

Maybe it’ll take time, but he can’t wait to find out what it is.

“Should we search for a twenty-four hour diner? I’m hungry,” he suggests.

“I’d like that,” Seungyoun nods, agreeing. At this very second, the clock starts to tick. Tiny moments can serve as catalysts, and he is ready for whatever this person will bring.

**Author's Note:**

> this is an attempt to write something remotely fluffy/sweet. i hope i succeeded hh


End file.
